


Sunlight Daze

by fatiguedfern



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, Implied spoilers, NDRV3 WLW Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-04 19:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14026770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern/pseuds/fatiguedfern
Summary: Bits and pieces scattered across galaxies and suns; all of which’s jagged edges caught in the same fluttering light..Or, Akamatsu Kaede radiates warmth, and others can’t help but orbit towards said warmth - moths to a flickering flame.





	1. ink

**Author's Note:**

> so i’m a little behind on the ndrv3wlwshipweek hosted on twitter and tumblr... because i forgot to actually post this yesterday like a fool,, anyway, that’s what this drabble collection is for, as well as a sort of countdown to kaede’s birthday!!  
> this particular drabble can also be linked to my other shiromatsu series

Ink drips. Blots of dark dye smear across her curled fingers as her hand hurriedly scrawls across flimsy paper as her neatly clipped writing fills the page. 

The pen’s leaking, Shirogane recognises somewhere in her haste to fill the well-worn diary’s awaiting page, but she doesn’t allow the thought to settle into her mind’s furrows any longer than its blink-of-an-eye formation. Akamatsu doesn’t turn from her seat in front of her. Shirogane gives her no reason to, studying the journal’s spine all the more intently.

Outside, the weather continues to sour, clouds blotting out the sun altogether. Shirogane keeps writing, inking a script of hazy days spent wandering bleak halls after being left with life unscripted, and therefore meaningless. Her pen fluid movements echo the sky’s darkly blanketed state, weaving words brimming with smothering cynicism and webbing to form a tale of hopeless detachment. 

She despises the mere thought of having a diary, dismissing it as a practice far too tactless a trope for her to even consider applying, yet she still finds herself clinging to the sloppily bound pages of a dated notebook. Many things have shifted since her being forced to plunge face first in icy realism, and Shirogane is left with no other choice than to ride out the waves discomfort as they lap over one another to tumble into her. 

A nagging voice tugs at her ear, whispering from the innermost corners of her heart, urging her away from a cycle of pointless pessimism. Shirogane flutters her eyelids shut, then opens them only to stare into the threadbare back of Akamatsu’s sweater, the material - faded by wear and wash - hanging limply down to her semi-obscured hips. She blinks again, eyes settling on the back of Akamatsu’s head this time. It’s easy to forget that she’s not alone in the small lecture room the ward keeps between the storage spaces containing most of the dust and clutter. 

Shirogane shakes her head, the slightest of upturns pulling at her lips. Even with all sunlight obscured, Akamatsu’s hair shines an almost ethereal flaxen - a ghost of light in the otherwise dank room. And, in a sense, that’s exactly what Akamatsu’s silhouette is; a ghost of a promise of companionship. A sliver of warmth threaded in an otherwise violently cold sea.

Shirogane’s eyes flit back to her journal, and when her pen returns to its scrawling flight across paper, the inky prose is dyed with a stray strand of light leaked into an otherwise darkly shrouded atmosphere depicted between scribbled-over lines.


	2. blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angie paints Kaede’s features.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a day late again bdhjdfg

The air fills with the sound of wet strokes against canvas, a paint splattered melody humming into life. The sun’s precise rays beat at her neck, lapping at her skin in uncharacteristically even motions. 

Angie beams as she works, revelling in Atua’s graciously gifted warmth as His knowing hands guide her, sparing quick, attentive glances in Kaede’s set position. She moves as directed as she has for days upon months upon years. She moves as a marionette fully aware of its puppeteer’s control, and she takes comfort in the knowledge that her movements are not truly her own, but rather something of far more worth. 

The world is vast, a mess of varyingly hued oil paints splattered across the same canvas, shades overlapping, yet never entirely combining. The world is uncertain and driven by self-preservation, but beneath Atua’s palms it is steady, and its inhabitants remain linked by veins pumping lifeblood branching from His will. The world’s people are isolated even as they swarm, but knowing of Atua’s constant presence, Angie is never alone. She sees, for Atua allows her such a gift, and she can but only hope that others can wake to see the same.

Kaede remains admirably still whilst Atua replicates her image through Angie’s hand. The day is warm, or at least as warm as Atua can allow within their tempered cage, and Kaede’s vest already lies in discarded heap beside her stool, and her sleeves crinkle where they’re roll into untidy cuffs, baring her forearms. Her hair lies undone from its usual pinned state, unique clips quickly pocketed after Angie voices Atua’s instruction. Fine hair cascades down full cheeks, reflecting a homely gold in the morning light.

Atua favours Kaede, Angie notes. It’s uncommon for any image to be painted by her hand that isn’t dug solely from Atua’s unending banks of visions. Nevertheless, the need to imprint Kaede’s kindly smile won out over tradition. It’s almost odd how at times, when Angie’s stroke burn with a peculiar intensity, Atua’s guidance seems to fizzle out, as if His grasp slips beneath a want Angie surely cannot possess. 

Atua paints the skies crimson, and their cage’s bars yellow, and the trees orange, and the clouds lilac. But it’s Angie who shades Kaede’s mirror image gold; Angie alone who stands before the canvas, yet somehow, impossibly, Angie does not feel alone with Kaede’s own warm smile splaying steps away. 

Angie can’t help but question if it truly is favoured by Atua, or rather by Angie herself. The same Angie who somehow momentarily convinces herself she means anything alone - a marionette somehow deceiving itself into mistaking varnished wood as flesh - enough so for blood tapped from Atua’s own to flush to her cheeks. 

Angie blushes, and she can’t bring herself to enforce the suddenly blatant lie that it’s solely Atua’s doing. Atua is not there, but Kaede sits a mere metre away. Angie is not alone, but is not Atua’s hand that clasps over her shoulder briefly as Kaede stands to leave. It is not Atua’s palm’s touch that lingers. 

But, the world is vast, and though bright as she may be, Kaede is but only a single spark. A spark that drifts away from a hand Angie didn’t know to be reaching. And then, Angie is alone, but Atua’s assurance is quick and sure to fill His vessel’s creaking heart with the sweep of a brushstroke cutting across Kaede’s portrait.

Angie dares not doubt, despite a stubborn blush’s incessant lingering.


End file.
